


Other Lives

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor has a cold. She handles it better than Bull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Lives

"I’m  _fine_ ,” Katrina insists.

She’s obviously not fine. She looks awful. It’s almost midday, and she hasn’t even ventured from beneath the pile of eight blankets on her bed. Her nose is too red, her cheeks are too pale, and there’s a mountain of handkerchiefs beside her in various states of crumpled and damp.

She didn’t sound great when he left this morning—the breath rattling in her throat as she turned over and slept on—but this is a whole lot worse.

"You look terrible," Bull tells her, and she snorts into a fresh handkerchief.

"Thanks, Bull. Way to make a girl feel special." Her fever-bright eyes narrow at him over the linen. "Don’t you have drills to run? Shoo." She flaps half-heartedly toward the stairs.

He doesn’t want to leave her, but he also doesn’t see what good he is, exactly, if he stays.  _Useless_  is a new feeling for him. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?” he persists.

"Whiskey, maybe," she groans, sinking a bit deeper into the bed. "Seriously, I’ll be good as new by tomorrow. I took a potion. Stop worrying."

"I’m not worrying."

She snorts again. The fever’s making her more animated than usual, her filters stripped away by a poor night’s sleep and a stuffy head. “Look at you, being all stiff and awkward and embracing denial like the rest of us,” she says. She’s actually smiling, though she still looks miserable doing it. “Go hit something. You’ll feel better.”

He stomps off down the stairs before she can take another jab at him. Her laugh—punctuated by a sneeze—follows him out.

* * *

"You’re really not up for it today, Chief."

Bull heaves himself to his feet. It’s the second time Krem’s knocked him down with a shield bash in the last half hour. His ass is starting to hurt.

"Just letting you build up your confidence," he replies, hefting the shield again.

Cassandra chuckles from her spot beneath the tree, turning the page of her book. “Is that all? You’re not distracted because the Inquisitor is unwell?”

When he turns to glare at her, Krem gets him with the shield bash. Again. Cassandra laughs.

"She’ll be fine, Chief," Krem says, grinning. "No one dies of a cold."

People  _have_  died of colds, but Bull doesn’t point this out. He can stand in front of her on the battlefield, protect her from Venatori and Red Templars and the occasional dragon, but he’s powerless against a cold. And what if it isn’t just a cold, but something much worse? One of those things that gets stuck in your chest and keeps you coughing until you die? What if none of the healers can work out what’s wrong with her, and he has to watch her dwindle away to nothing?

"Relax," Krem says, raising his shield, "or I’ll knock you over again."

* * *

By nightfall, he decides he’ll feel better if he checks on her—retrieves a bottle of whiskey from Cabot and makes his way through the main keep. The Orlesians give him a wide berth. He’s almost at the door to her quarters when he crosses paths with Josephine.

"How is she?" she asks, hoisting her stack of missives. Her candle wobbles.

He nods to the door. “I’m about to find out.”

Her eyes note the whiskey. “Good idea. Get some honey and lemon, too.”

"For what?"

She rolls her eyes. “Just do it. She’ll thank you, I promise.” She brushes past him, already calling a greeting to one of the nobles.

After a detour to the kitchens—the head cook delays him by making tea, and then fussing until it’s arranged just so on the tray beside a bright violet flower in a vase “to cheer the poor dear up”—he makes the slow climb up the stairs to her quarters.

There’s a book propped open in her lap; the mountain of handkerchiefs has dwindled down to only a few. She smiles sleepily at him.

"Hi," she says, eyes lighting on the tray. "Is that for me?"

"I was just gonna bring whiskey." He puts the tray down on the bedside table. "Other people had opinions, though."

"Ah,  _people_.” Her eyes crinkle up at the corners. She leans over to inspect the tray, then reaches for a cup.

He intercepts her, gently pushing her hand away. “Relax. Tell me what you want, and I’ll assemble…this.”

She looks as if she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Fine. Tea, finger of whiskey, spoon of honey, garnish with one of those lemon wedges.”

It takes a minute, but he finally passes over the drink; she sips and sighs, head tipping back onto her stack of pillows. She does look better—more color in her face, not all concentrated around her nose.

"You’re still worrying," she says, eyes narrowing. "I’m better, I promise. Tell me how the drills went."

He sits down to pop his brace off. “Krem got me with a shield bash.”

"Horror of horrors."

"Three times." He pulls his boots off, too. "Cassandra laughed."

"Should I beat her up for you?" she asks, smiling. When he settles in beside her, she rests her head on his shoulder. "I could try. I think she might bruise me, though. And I’m not sure I could beat up a wet rag at the moment, honestly."

"Why don’t you stay here, then, and I’ll pick a fight with Cassandra if I feel like it." He lifts the book from her lap. There’s a picture of a sprawling garden and a little cabin on the page, cutting into the blocks of text. "What’s this?"

She lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Just a story I used to read when I was a child. Josephine got me a copy a while ago. Since I couldn’t focus on reports, I thought…” She shrugs. “But I’m too tired, honestly. Can’t get more than a page without closing my eyes.”

He considers the text, eye narrowed. “I could read it to you.”

She goes still against him; when he glances down at her, there’s a frozen smile of surprise on her face, warmth in her eyes that has nothing to do with the fever.

He’s heard bards sing about hearts beating heavy and hands trembling and stomachs churning, but until she sat on his bed and offered him a dragon’s tooth, they were songs about other people and other lives.

"Start at the beginning, kadan," she says, turning the page. 


End file.
